


Charcoal

by Meg97



Series: Kingdom Hearts Drabble Prompts. [6]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg97/pseuds/Meg97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riku's never been particularly artistic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charcoal

Riku’s never been particularly artistic.

At least, not in the conventional sense; most people were able to create art as vibrant as the sun, with water colours or oil paints or even pastels, that shone almost too brightly against his eyes for him to take in much of the apparent beauty that most other people saw.  
Riku’s not really sure how he found himself perched up against the headboard on his far-too-big bed with ivory sheets in a far-too-big room for one person, but he’s there, and so is she.

“You need to let it flow gently,”

Namine’s voice has always been soft, though it’s not as corrupted with jagged edges and crumpling chains of memory as it used to be -- it’s soothing, with her fingers, only slightly warmer than his own, guiding his right hand in it’s methods,

“Like your memories; if you rely on those, you can make anything.”

There’s a hidden meaning behind those words, and he’s just about able to grip it -- though he’s sure to Sora, perhaps even to Kairi, the meaning may have been lost. Naminé is Kairi’s Nobody, yes, but he has, by far, spent the most time with her, in actuality.  
He wouldn’t claim to understanding her, not at all, she was as paradoxical to him as he was to most other people that weren’t Sora or Kairi - but that didn’t mean he didn’t try.

He takes a deep breath, inhaling the thick scent of salt and sea and fresh island air, along with Light and crayons and drawings hung up in a room that’s as ivory white as his own, though more empty. Kairi’s asleep, or so Naminé had told him, but her Light continued to radiate through her Nobody - sort of ex-Nobody - and into his room, mixing with his Darkness in what was probably a beautiful lick of whispering waves, careful and soft and gentle, brushing along each other but not quite colliding.

Pale lips purse in concentration as silver brows furrow, and her hand on his shoulder, the skin contact because she’s wearing her usual white dress and he his black under-shirt, no longer burns the way it used to whenever he’d brushed against her during their time amongst the twilight. She’s brighter now, part of Kairi, and she’s long since been freed from that cage that he’d eye with wariness each time he’d wander into that White Room.

He’s trying, he honestly is, but he’s never been good at art, not in the way everyone else is. He’s able to make images of darkness wisp into fantastic creations at a whim of his fingers, encourage his own dark power to do what he so wished; but when it came to using conventional methods, as one could expect from someone who’d left normality behind years ago, he struggled.  
An exhale, as loud to him as the sound of the waves lapping outside his balcony doors, left him, and his chest lowered with the exhale, pale fingers tightening their grip on a stick of ebony black, hesitating in their approach to ivory paper, pristine and previously untouched.

Just let it flow, she’d said, like memories, and instantly that whisks him away to both good and bad times.

There’s her, in shades of crimson and tanned skin and a beautiful smile he could melt for, had and would willingly sacrifice himself to keep in tact. Her laugh, tinkling and bright and enthusiastic, as much a part of the Light as she was, echoed in his ears even if it wasn’t actually there -- Naminé’s laugh is similar, but not the same -- and flickering images of how her fingers fit with his, what it felt like to have that skin-to-skin contact they got rarely but more than they used to, felt like they almost would’ve been strong enough to chain themselves back together even if Naminé wasn’t present.  
She smells of ocean and Paopu Fruit and joy, in a sense, and the very thought of Kairi has his heart jumping in a little way that he wonders if Naminé can feel, with her fingers against his and her shoulder pressed tightly against his own, barely room for distance.

Then chocolate brown is the next to appear when he has his eyes closed, cinnamon and sand and Sora, with a smile and a laugh so bright and charming that it always encourages his own lips to twitch, if just so, and a small twinkle to shine in his eyes with complete and utter adoration. Sora’s able to do ridiculous things, both to him and other people, able to keep up the positivity behind a mask that, really, only he and Kairi have been able to break completely, and for that Riku’s grateful. He thinks of sapphire hues and how they always remind him of the sky, minus the clouds because Sora hardly ever has a rainy day, and when he does they’d always be there to stitch up the pieces and allow him to feel comfortable in his own skin again.

They’ve all been through a lot, that much is certain - there’s still the wisp of Darkness under his skin, a constant hum with a sound perhaps only he can hear, that allows him to be more aware of everything than he’d ever been before. He could smell Naminé like he could everyone else, and while he’d once been mistaken and said they smelled the same, he realised now that it was just similar. Kairi smelt like perfume and sunlight and sea, while Naminé radiated of stars and crayon wax and a different kind of maturity.

“See? I knew you could do it.”

He’s quick to open his eyes at that comment, making note of her proud and twinkling gaze as his eyes drift to the paper, etched lightly and carefully with lines of charcoal. It’s an image he’s never seen before, but certainly one he would like to create, as a constant, if he could - of Kairi and Sora both smiling enough to hit their eyes, hands outstretched as if to guide him along; and while he’s not in the picture himself, it almost feels like the ebony charcoal and ivory paper want to drag him along for the ride, suck him in into a time like this. He’s wise, mature, knows that he doesn’t need to leap into the paper to see that image;

He could create it, on his own time.


End file.
